


The Good Old Days

by ckofshadows



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 12:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10217609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckofshadows/pseuds/ckofshadows
Summary: I didn't expect my dad to find love at a nursing home, of all places. And I certainly didn't expect the curly-haired orderly who kept catching my eye.





	

I zip up the last suitcase and pause, looking around at my father's empty bedroom.

My whole life, Dad has been the guy I could always lean on. He might scratch at his balding head and struggle to find the right words, but he always found them eventually. And he's always, always had my back.

It can't have been easy for him, raising a kid like me after Mom died. I remember practicing my  _pas de chat_  through the family room as Dad watched football. Other dads —  _his_ dad, even — might have made their sons sit down and watch the game, but Dad just clapped politely and signed me up for dance classes.

"Where are we going, again?"

I'm startled out of my reverie. He came into the room almost soundlessly. "We're going to your new home, Dad."

"But..." He looks around. "But I live  _here_."

I can't cry. I won't cry. "You're going to live somewhere new now. Somewhere they can take care of you properly."

"Your mom can take care of me, can't she? Or, no, wait, she died. Your stepmom?"

"She passed away last May, Dad, remember?"

"Right, right." He nods decisively, then pauses. "Wait... where are we going?"

I take his arm gently. "We're going for a ride."

* * *

Shady Pines is a small nursing home outside of Bluffton. It has the best ratings of any home in northwest Ohio. There are sixty residents, give or take, and a lengthy waiting list that ensures that beds aren't left empty for long. It's taken all of my connections to get him in.

None of that is keeping my tears at bay while I help him into the building, though. He's looking around in bewilderment.

"What's this place?"

"Your new home. Remember, we visited a few times?"

"Ah, yes. Is the whole family moving here?"

"No, Dad, just you."

"What about your stepmom?"

"She died, remember?"

He hums a little, and I know he doesn't remember. I settle him into a chair, then hurry outside to grab his bags and swipe at my wet cheeks.

"The drop-off is the hardest part."

I spin around, startled, and find an orderly standing there. He has wide, sympathetic eyes and a head full of dark curls. "What?"

He leans over and lifts the two heaviest bags as though they weigh nothing at all. "Today will be the worst of it. I promise. Once you start visiting and he's settled in, you'll know you made the right choice."

"I bet you say that to everyone."

He shrugs one shoulder. "It's just how it is. Did you make this decision by yourself?"

"Yeah. My brother was no help at all." I pull out the other bags and slam the trunk shut a little harder than necessary.

"It takes a lot of strength to do what you're doing."

I can feel my jaw tighten. "I'm abandoning my father into the hands of strangers. This is the weakest moment of my life."

The orderly opens his mouth to reply, but I'm already marching toward the door. Inside, Dad is waiting.

He asks me if we're leaving now.

* * *

I visit Dad the next day, and find him sitting on the bed, waiting. He's packed all of his belongings back into his suitcases, and he smiles brightly at me.

"Time to go home!" he says.

I unpack each item while telling him about all of the great offerings that Shady Pines has. "There's bingo night, and painting classes, and square dancing—"

"I can't dance."

"Well, they teach you, Dad."

"No, I mean I  _can't_ _._ My dad said real men aren't allowed to dance." He looks so small, hunched over on the bed. "He got real mad at me when I said I wanted to try."

"Your dad's gone," I remind him. "He died three years ago. He can't tell you what to do anymore. Besides, we both know that real men can dance. Look at me." I raise my arms and turn a perfect pirouette. Dad's eyes light up. He claps softly, and I catch a flash of a smiling orderly walking by the door.

"I raised  _two_  real men," Dad says, beaming.

"You sure did." It takes all my effort not to ask him where the other one is, but I manage. For him.

* * *

I walk him around to see the different activities. He holds my hand tightly, nodding when I ask him questions. I've never seen him look frightened like this before.

Luckily, a group of old ladies takes pity on him. They invite us both to join them for lunch, and they load his tray with their own pudding cups.

"Eat,  _eat_ , you're too skinny," one tuts at him, and he grins at her as he digs into another cup of butterscotch pudding.

I laugh, feeling a tickle of hope.

* * *

The first two weeks, I visit him every day. He clings to me at first, but as the days pass, he seems to get his bearings. One Sunday, he tells me how a group of residents had gone to a musical the night before.

"We almost didn't make it in time," he says, his eyes wide. "Our bus broke down halfway to the theater!"

I frown. "Your bus broke down? So you were stranded?" A hundred different scenarios play in my mind, each more horrifying than the last.

"It was fine, I fixed it." He bites his lip to mask his proud smile. I hate when he does that.

"You fixed the bus?"

"I did. Popped the hood and fixed it."

"You saved the day."

"You know, I kinda did."

* * *

As the weeks pass, I start to come every other day, and then three times a week. Dad doesn't seem to notice — and if he does, he doesn't complain.

I catch glimpses of the curly-haired orderly from time to time. Twice I think he's watching me, but when I turn to look, he's busying himself with a stack of clipboards.

One day, he approaches me in Dad's bedroom, looking nervous. "Seems like your dad is fitting in well," he ventures.

"Mm." I run my hand over the sheets as if smoothing them. It's a pointless effort; the beds here are made beautifully.

"He seems to have made lots of friends. We all like him very much."

"He's a friendly guy."

He hesitates for a moment. "I, um. I wanted to let you know..."

"Yes?" I look up at him, and he blushes right down to his roots. For the first time, I wonder if he might be gay too. "What did you want to let me know?"

"Residents here form close bonds. Not all of them have children, and the ones that do don't get visitors as often as you come."

"You're saying I come too much?"

"No, not at all. But I hope you know that residents here create their own social life." He gives me a meaningful look, and I shake my head.

"I don't understand."

"It's not uncommon for our residents to go on dates with each other," he says finally. "They may be old, but I've seen residents fall in love well into their nineties."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask. He looks away, and I sigh with understanding. "He's dating someone."

"He is, yes."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I've heard that these places have mostly female residents, and there was a big swarm of them offering him pudding cups on his second day. I guess that's a sort of... mating ritual, for a nursing home?"

He doesn't smile at my joke. He just looks confused. "So you don't... oh."

"I don't what?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head when I frown at him. "It's not my story to tell."

* * *

I take Dad out shopping for clothes, and he's like a kid in a candy store. For as long as I've known him, his wardrobe has been a mix of worn jeans and sweatshirts. But all of a sudden, he's dragging me into Brooks Brothers, trying on collared shirts and suspenders and ties. Actual  _ties._ He even picks out a silky sky-blue scarf, setting it on top of the heap of clothes in our cart.

"I have to look good," he whines, when I try to steer him back toward the casual wear. "I look like a schlub. No one likes a schlub."

We go into the dining hall for dinner, and he smiles proudly in his new green bowtie. The orderly sees us from across the room, where he's helping an elderly woman eat her soup, and flashes me an appreciative thumbs-up.

Dad and I eat by ourselves. I glance around at the ladies at neighboring tables, but no one seems to be making moony eyes at Dad. Maybe the orderly was just confused.

* * *

"I'm in love..." Dad is waltzing around his room, wearing a dopy smile. "I'm in love, I'm in  _love_..."

"I, uh... okay."

"I've neeever been in love befooore," he sings, and I huff out a laugh of surprise. I've never heard him sing before. Not ever. "I thought my heart was saaafe... I thought I knew the scooore..."

"You've been in love," I remind him patiently. "At least twice, remember?"

He doesn't stop waltzing. "Never ever  _ever_ been in love befooore..."

* * *

The orderly has taken to gazing at me openly. He has beautiful eyes, soulful and dark. His curls are thick and shiny, and I find myself daydreaming once or twice about how it would feel to bury my fingers in them and just  _pull._

I've never had a proper boyfriend, not a real one. Some one-night stands here and there. When I traveled with my ballet company, it just wasn't practical to have any romantic ties. We were always on the road. And then my stepmother died, and Dad started forgetting things, and... and yeah, New York City might have been my dream once, but Dad needed me.

I start to sneak glances at the orderly. I can feel myself blush all the way down my neck when he catches my eye.

I don't even know his  _name._

* * *

On Valentine's Day, I come to visit Dad, bringing a bouquet of gerber daisies to brighten his nightstand. But he's not in his room. Not in his bathroom. Not in the dining room, or the TV room, or the rec room. My heart starts to pound as I jog through the halls. He can't have wandered out of the building, could he? Isn't their security better than that?

I catch sight of the orderly and run up to him. "My dad," I say, my pulse racing. "I can't find my dad."

He swallows thickly. "I, um..."

" _Please_. Help me."

He glances away, his eyes unreadable. "Room 41."

I take off at once, running down a couple of hallways until I reach the doorway.

And then I stop.

And then I can't move.

Dad is inside Room 41. He's lying on the bed, kissing another resident. Not just kissing; they're full-on  _making out_. In bed. Together. He's on top of the other resident, and when he pulls back to smile softly, my knees start to shake.

"Why don't we give them some time alone." The orderly is beside me, suddenly, and I blink, shaking my head.

"I don't understand. It's a man."

"Yes."

"My dad. He's kissing a man."

"He is, yes."

"He's—"

"Let's give them some privacy."

He leads me into the dining hall, setting my bouquet of daisies gently on the table before bringing me a little can of Coke and a straw. When I don't move, he pops open the can and sticks the straw in, like I'm one of his old folks.

"My dad's straight," I tell him. "He's  _straight._ "

"We find sometimes," he says thoughtfully, "that when people get older, they lose their inhibitions. They're able to be the truest version of themselves."

"This isn't the truest version of my dad. I know my dad. He doesn't have any interest in men."

"He seems to now," he replies softly. "Your father has been in full courtship mode for weeks."

I laugh without humor. "Dad doesn't  _court._ I remember when he started dating my stepmom. There was no wooing, no romance. They just dated for a while, and then they got married. It was the same with my mom, from what she told me."

The orderly raises his eyebrows. "Like I said, sometimes this is the stage of life where people can finally be their truest selves."

* * *

They're sitting on a sofa in the lounge holding hands when I find them later. Dad looks positively lovesick. I finally get a good look at the other man. He's tall and willowy, with perfectly coiffed white hair and piercing blue eyes. He's also wearing the scarf that Dad had me buy a few weeks ago. They both straighten up when they see me.

"Kurt, this is Joseph. Joseph, this is Kurt."

We shake hands, and I get the distinct impression that this guy is judging me just as strongly as I'm judging him.

"We're in love," he adds, after a full minute of silence.

"That's great... but Dad, isn't this kind of... sudden? I mean, where did this come from?"

"I love men."

"Since when?"

"I've always loved men."

"Dad..."

"I've never loved women. Never for a moment."

"So... my mom? And Maria? What were they to you?"

"Joseph, please." For a moment, I think Dad might cry. I've  _never_  seen him cry, and the prospect terrifies me. "Please try to understand."

Kurt is patting his hand gently, and I can't bear to watch this anymore. I get up and walk out to my car.

I don't return for a week.

* * *

The orderly isn't there when I come back, and I'm afraid to walk in on my dad and Kurt in bed again, so I wander into the rec room. I play chess with Mrs. Wilkins for an hour, then teach Mr. Franklin how to play Chinese checkers. I'm about to start a game of bridge with several of the residents when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up to see Kurt standing next to me.

"A word?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.

We take a walk outside. Even at his age, his posture is perfectly straight. His hands clasped behind his back as though he's surveying his estate, instead of the modest grounds of a nursing home. For several minutes, we walk without speaking.

I don't know what to say to this man. My whole life, it's been me and my dad against the rest of the world. Sure, we loved my mom, and my stepmom, and my brother Wes. But Dad and I were never close with them like we were with each other. Now that he has Kurt, where does that leave me?

"When did you come out of the closet, Joseph?" he asks me finally.

"I was thirteen," I reply.

"How'd your dad take it?"

"Fine."

"Did he judge you? Tell you that you were going to hell? Threaten to throw you out on the street?"

"No, of course not. He wasn't that kind of man. He hugged me and told me he loved me. Said he was proud of me."

Kurt stops, looking at me. "Now tell me what kind of man your grandfather was."

I feel as though I've been punched. "He..."

"Imagine your dad trying to come out to him. Imagine the sorts of things he'd say to Blaine. Or  _do_  to him."

I don't have to imagine. When my grandfather died a few years back, I hadn't seen him in more than two decades. He'd cut off all contact with me after I'd come out. "So you're telling me that my dad is actually gay."

"That's what I'm telling you."

"And he's always been gay."

"Always, yes."

My cheeks feel so hot, and when I lift my fingertips to touch them, I'm surprised to find them wet with tears. Kurt lays his hand on my shoulder softly. A moment later it hits me, really  _hits_ me, and I take off at a run.

Over the hill, down the sidewalk, into the foyer, down two hallways, until I reach my dad's room. He's sitting on his bed, his shoulders slumped.

"I want you to take dance lessons," I tell him breathlessly, and he looks up in surprise.

"Joseph?"

"I want you to learn how to dance. And... and I want you to sing whenever you want to sing."

He stands up, biting his lip. "And?"

"And if you love Kurt, I want you to love Kurt."

Dad nearly crumples then, but I'm there to catch him. His knees buckle and he cries, my dad  _cries_ , and he has the audacity to thank me.

* * *

The three of us have dinner together. Kurt reminds Dad to lay his napkin on his lap, and Dad breaks his heart-shaped sugar cookie in two, so that Kurt can have half. They hold hands while they eat.

Dad leans over to kiss Kurt's cheek after dessert, and Kurt beams.

"There's a showing of The Sound of Music in town tomorrow," Kurt says softly. "Do you want to go?"

"Nah, let's just stay home and snuggle," Dad says.

"Sounds like a plan."

They keep whispering, and I sit back in my chair.

It's been less than two months, and Dad is already calling this place  _home_.

* * *

At eight, Dad and Kurt lead a sing-along in the rec room. Dad plays the piano beautifully, stunning me once again, while Kurt sings in a lovely, clear alto. I'm leaning against the doorway, watching them, when I feel someone nudge me from behind.

It's the orderly, of course.

"Kurt was so lonely before your dad arrived," he says softly. "He doesn't have any family left, and he's a bit too sharp around the edges to make many friends here. I think your dad saved him."

"Dad's always been pretty good at saving the day."

"They make me hopeful," the orderly says dreamily. "They make me believe that it's never too late to find love."

Kurt sits on Dad's knee, singing to him. Dad looks up at him, his eyes alight with life and love, and laughs.

I turn back to the orderly, and ask him his name.


End file.
